


fealty

by screechfox



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Mind Manipulation, Self-Harm, Subspace, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26597614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: “Thou desirest a sense of purpose.” Annalise delivers the words as though they are a great revelation, quiet and decisive. “We cannot grant this, imprisoned as We are, but perhaps—”
Relationships: Annalise the Queen of the Vilebloods/The Hunter (Bloodborne)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26
Collections: Femdom Exchange 2020





	fealty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DryDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DryDreams/gifts).



> I'll admit my knowledge of detailed Bloodborne lore is a little bit patchy, but I couldn't resist some vampire-esque nobility. Please forgive me if some aspects aren't precisely canon compliant!
> 
> Further details on the self harm warning in the end notes.

The Hunter has grown used to kneeling in these long, dark hours. It isn’t something she thought she would ever find routine. Once, she was nobility, gilded and jewelled, and she wouldn’t have dared to bend the knee to anyone — would have sooner drawn her sword and spilled blood than show any sign of submission.

That headstrong girl wouldn’t recognise her now, fighting through this wretched town. All of that regality seems like a lifetime ago, except when she kneels at the Vileblood Queen’s throne.

“Thou art melancholy,” Annalise observes. She tilts her head as though it’s a curiosity rather than a concern, as though she has grown unfamiliar with the very concept of sadness.

“Thoughtful,” the Hunter corrects. “I am troubled— and moreover, I am restless.”

The worst part of this blood-drenched night is the quiet moments in between; every moment spent in sanctuary feels like a sin. There are things that the Hunter must do, and yet she cannot bring herself to move from where she kneels. Any church would ask her to pay penance for this guilt. 

Annalise, of course, does not. The Hunter is almost certain that the Queen of the Vilebloods does not believe in sin. Why would she? They are, both of them, sworn against the Church.

“What can We do to ease thy mind, closest of kin?” 

It’s peculiar how genuine Annalise sounds. Not caring, no — she is as callous as she is weary, as regal as she is alone — but genuine. She asks because she wishes to know the answer.

The Hunter has missed simplicity. Her smile curves at the corners like the arc of a blade. 

“I would prefer to ask what I can do for you, my lady,” she asks, bowing her head.

As the silence stretches on, the Hunter fears she may have made a misstep. Annalise has always received her devotion with a certain amused detachment, a fondness even in rejection, but it’s still possible that one day, the Hunter will break a boundary that she is unable to sense.

“Thou desirest a sense of purpose.” Annalise delivers the words as though they are a great revelation, quiet and decisive. “We cannot grant this, imprisoned as We are, but perhaps—”

The Hunter startles as Annalise stands from her throne. She sways slightly, as though unused to the weight of the mask that keeps her trapped here. It is horribly fallible; the Hunter has always thought of Annalise as a marble statue, but suddenly she seems as fragile as porcelain.

Annalise’s hand is ice-cold as she tips the Hunter’s head up by the chin.

“Thou mayst think this practice barbaric, and perhaps it is so. Certainly the Church would name us beasts for partaking in such acts, but We discarded the shroud of their opinions long, long ago. Thou art sworn against them alongside Us, but there will be no judgement if you flinch away.”

Her fingers leave the Hunter’s skin, and the warmth that rushes in feels like a loss.

The Hunter watches as Annalise raises her wrist to the shining edge of her mask. With deliberate movements, she draws the sharp metal across her flesh, letting rich crimson spill down her skin. It should be horrifying, and yet the Hunter finds herself enraptured.

“I will heal,” Annalise says. “Our flesh is not mortal. Drink, and perhaps it will ease thy mind.”

It could be a testament to how Yharnam has changed her, but the Hunter doesn’t hesitate. She presses her mouth to Annalise’s wrist like a lover’s kiss, and drinks without inhibition.

The taste of blood is familiar, but it has never been so raw as this. She’s always wondered what calls hunters to become beasts, and here, mouth pressed to her queen’s pale wrist, the Hunter thinks she might understand the appeal of such animal viciousness. She had felt the Vileblood corruption spreading through her before, like something sentient working its way under her skin, moving in sync with her every movement. Now it’s coming alive, a strange dark decadence curling around her muscles until they go slack, relaxing all at once.

“Very good,” Annalise murmurs, her free hand stroking through the Hunter’s hair.

With every mouthful of Annalise’s blood, it gets harder and harder to think. All the noise, all of those conflicting purposes that lie outside this hall, they all vanish under the richness on her tongue. There is only Annalise, keeping her kneeling and content.

“Once, We had a court, scholars and fighters united underneath the banner of the Vilebloods. Of our hunters, the very best became knights, sworn to a deeper fealty than all the rest.”

Between one word and the next, Annalise pulls her wrist away. The wound is near-healed, no mark left except the smears of blood on her skin. She rests her hand on the Hunter’s shoulder, and despite how cold her touch is, warmth radiates from the point of contact.

Right now, the Hunter would do anything for Annalise— but then, is that so different from any other moment since she entered this castle? It’s so hard to remember now. The Hunter finds herself reaching for the betrothal ring she carries, hanging from a gleaming chain around her neck — the ring that Annalise has rejected so many times, fond but firm. Beneath the mask, Annalise’s mouth seems to curve in a smile.

“Thy devotion is complete, is it not? Beyond even simple loyalty to a queen. Thy desperation was clear to Us from the moment you knelt before our throne. We are unworthy, but not ungrateful.”

Annalise traces a finger along the Hunter’s jawline as though examining a possession. 

“Thou wouldst have been the best of Our knights. Thou _wilt_ be the best of Our knights.”

The title settles in around the Hunter’s shoulders like a cloak, a mark of status in name, if not in action. She knows this changes nothing, that her task is blood-stained all the same, but this knighthood is as a collar around her neck, leashing her tightly to Annalise’s aims.

“I was nobility once,” the Hunter murmurs, dazed and dizzy.

“And now, again,” her Queen replies.

**Author's Note:**

> Further details on warning: Annalise, an immortal who can heal quickly, cuts her wrist open so the Hunter can drink from it. The wound heals before the fic is finished.


End file.
